


New Lessons

by Red_Tigress



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, First Aid, Gen, Hurt Aramis, Hurt Athos, Hurt Porthos, Hurt/Comfort, Needlework, Whump, errbody hurts sometimes, sorry for that tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 23:22:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1323076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red_Tigress/pseuds/Red_Tigress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt "Aramis teaches d'Artagnan basic first aid. Basic being a relative term."</p>
<p>Aramis' medical lessons prove to be very helpful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Lessons

**Author's Note:**

> Written before 1x08, so anything that changes from here to there, sorry. Also, while my first aid knowledge is good, my knowledge of first aid knowledge in the 17th century is not so good. I imagine they had started using cadavers, as is indicated by the one undertaker, but stuff we may take as common knowledge (arteries, veins) now, may not have been common knowledge then. So please try to read with an open mind. 
> 
> Many thanks to Isilarma for the beta.

D’Artagnan was interrupted from his drink by a clatter of tools and bags being abruptly spread on the table in front of him.

“What’s all this?” D’Artagnan asked, amusement touching his features.

“You’ll soon learn, if you haven’t already,” Aramis grinned slyly at him. “That part of being a Musketeer is having a common knowledge of ailments and injuries, and how best to mend them.”

D’Artagnan raised an eyebrow as Aramis unrolled a canvas case, full of tools for what looked like somewhat intense injuries. He eyed the large scissors especially suspiciously. “Would I be removing someone’s guts?”

“Musket balls, maybe.” Aramis commented distractedly, his grin faded.

“Do not Athos and Porthos know how to do this?”

Aramis gave an amused chuckle. “Porthos, while always interested in learning new things, only likes to read about terrible injuries for his own shock value, and doesn’t like the practicality of knowing such information.” Aramis rolled his eyes. “He keeps saying he has me for this type of thing.”

“What about Athos?”

“Athos insists we have physicians for a reason, and anything on a mission that can’t be solved by soaking it in alcohol is probably going to kill us anyway.”

D’Artagnan grimaced. “Lovely outlook.”

Aramis folded his arms across his chest, looking down at his younger companion fondly. “But I suspect you have both the patience and the interest in the benefits of knowing such things.”

“Uh,” D’Artagnan glanced around for maybe someone looking for a fight so he could practice that instead.

“We’ll start with the basics, shall we?” Aramis’ eyes lit up. “Gashes and cuts!”

“That’s not…is that ‘basic’?” D’Artagnan gave him a doubtful look as he pulled out a swath of bandages.

“Blood flows through your body in veins and arteries. The largest of which are located in your neck,” Aramis touched his own throat. “Arms,” he pointed to a spot on his lower arm just by the arm pit. “And legs.” He reached down and touched the inside of his thigh (D’Artagnan thought he was going to go for something else in that region, so he was immensely relieved). “If any one of these are nicked, you must fashion a tourniquet and staunch the blood flow.”

Aramis reached down and started unfastening his belt.

“What are you doing?” D’Artagnan asked in alarm.

“Don’t be so squeamish, I haven’t got anything you haven’t seen before,” Aramis said amusedly as he continued to unfasten his belt. D’Artagnan felt himself flush slightly. “Now, you can use something like a belt, or a small rope, to slow the blood flow. Hand me your arm.”

D’Artagnan did as instructed, and Aramis began to loop the belt around his upper arm, right under his shoulder. D’Artagnan’s arm began to numb almost immediately.

“That feeling is because I am slowing the blood flow by applying pressure to the artery that runs through your arm.” Aramis than began undoing the tourniquet. D’Artagnan nodded in thought. “However, it can be dangerous if not used correctly, and cause permanent damage.”

“Wait, what? Then why are you teaching me this?” D’Artagnan asked. He didn’t want to render anyone’s arm or leg useless.

“I have faith in you. Besides, you have seen enough to know what constitutes as heavy blood loss. You’ll know when an artery has been hit.”

D’Artagnan thought for a moment, thinking back to a man he had bested once in a skirmish. How quickly the blood had drained out of him, how fast he had died. He suppressed a shudder.

“I suppose…” he said hesitantly.

“Fantastic!” Aramis smiled, finally sitting down to show some other equipment to D’Artagnan.

*

*

*

“D’Artagnan would you assist me, please?” Aramis called over. D’Artagnan sheathed his sword, seeing that Porthos had already taken care of the last bandit send to attack them. Porthos nodded at the younger man, and D’Artagnan walked over to where Aramis was kneeling in front of a grumpier than usual-looking Athos.

“I told you, I am perfectly fine,” Athos growled.

“He most certainly is not,” Aramis said conversationally to D’Artagnan. “Usually, broken bones are indicated through a sharp crack and extreme pain,” he told the younger man. D’Artagnan nodded, having broken his ankle once doing work on the farm a few years back. Aramis pulled back the sleeve on Athos’ left arm, which he was holding near to his chest. Athos hissed, and Aramis ignored him. “Signs of broken bones include the person holding the injured limb close to their body,” he nodded to indicate Athos, who was glaring at him. “Swelling,” Aramis took Athos’ sword hand and held it next to the injured one for comparison. “And extreme redness which will soon turn to black and blue bruises.” He pressed lightly on the injured limb and D’Artagnan watched as Athos bit back a groan.

“Should you be pushing it like that?” he asked as Athos leaned back in pain, eyes closed.

Aramis ignored him, looking around on the ground. “Ah, bring me that stick, the one that is rather thick,” he said pointing. D’Artagnan did as he was told. Aramis mumbled a thanks, as he pressed the stick against the length of Athos’ forearm. “A splint keeps the bone from moving out of alignment and doing further damage,” Aramis lectured as he began wrapping bandages around Athos’ arm with the splint. “As this idiot most certainly would have done.”

Porthos laughed boisterously from a few feet away. Athos turned his glare to him, but was interrupted from his brooding when Aramis pushed his arm against his chest. “You can fold a larger piece of cloth in half to make a sling,” Aramis continued, tying a knot in the corner of the sling which he then fit Athos’ elbow into.

“I do not appreciate being coddled,” Athos mumbled.

“You are not being coddled, you are having your injuries attended to,” Aramis said in a voice that sounded like it was something he had had to repeat many times. He took the other two ends of the triangle, tying it behind Athos’ neck. “Now,” Aramis said turning back to D’Artagnan. “This is a little more secure, but he can still flap around like an injured bird.” Athos’ eyes narrowed and D’Artagnan fought to keep a straight face. Aramis took another bandage, wrapping it from just above where Athos’ arm was positioned to around his torso. “Tie that tightly, would you?” D’Artagnan moved behind Athos, tying the cloth tightly. Athos gave a small grunt, but otherwise remained silent.

D’Artagnan moved back over to where Aramis was testing the security of the bandage.

“I am quite unable to move it,” Athos growled.

“Ah, voila! Now we are able to ride back to Paris.” Aramis said, standing up. D’Artagnan notice the resigned look Athos gave his horse.

“It may be painful,” D’Artagnan pointed out.

Aramis regarded him for a moment before his eyes lit up in understanding. “Ah, astute observation, D’Artagnan! While I am hesitant to give Athos more wine than what already flows through his veins, it will ease the ride.”

Porthos laughed again as he helped a still disgruntled-looking Athos onto his horse.

*

*

*

D’Artagnan ran through the palace, making sure the last of the rooms didn’t have any lingering attackers in them. He couldn’t fathom how they had gotten past the guards. It was clearly an infiltration long in planning. While the Musketeers had foiled the attack, a few of their number were still unaccounted for.

He came to one of the palace’s many meeting-rooms, noting the two bodies on the floor next to the two smashed chairs that had once been expertly crafted.

“D’Artagnan, a moment of your time,” Aramis’ calm voice called.

D’Artagnan stepped into the room, looking for the source. He moved closer to the large, ornate table in the center, seeing the top of Aramis’ hat on the other side. He moved around it. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

“No, not I,” Aramis said. As he came into view fully, D’Artagnan saw now that he was kneeling on the floor, cradling Porthos head in his lap. With renewed alarm, D’Artagnan quickly kneeled down next to them, taking in Porthos’ appearance. His eyes fluttered weakly, his face was a little grey, and he caught the sight of something wet in his dark hair.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Concussion. Head injury. It’s where the head is hit hard enough for the brain to bounce off the inside of the skull,” Aramis clarified, pulling one of his hands up. D’Artagnan’s eyes widened at the amount of blood covering it. “Head wounds bleed a lot, but there’s rarely the danger of bleeding out from one. It’s because there’s pretty much only skin and blood around the skull.” Aramis moved his hand back to holding the cloth in place over the back of Porthos’ head.

Porthos moaned weakly, and opened his eyes slightly. “’Ra-mis?” he slurred.

“Concussions can be dangerous if not treated correctly,” Aramis lectured to D’Artagnan, but his soft tones were meant to sooth the injured man. “Symptoms include blurred speech, confusion, and short-term memory loss.”

As if on cue, Porthos slurred “whappened?”

Aramis gave an amused smile. “Your thick skull has saved the palace, my friend.”

Porthos gave a small smile back. “Good. ‘urts a lot…savin the pal-ce.” Suddenly, Porthos’ eyes widened and he started to turn his head. Aramis grabbed a shoulder, helping to turn his body as Porthos’ body convulsed and he heaved all over the imported rug.

Aramis wrinkled his nose as D’Artagnan jumped back from the mess. “Nausea is also a common symptom.”

Porthos moaned loudly and rolled over, trying to get to his feet and failing. D’Artagnan helped, as Aramis continued holding the cloth against his head. “They’ll often be disoriented,” Aramis explained.

“Huh?” said Porthos, giving him a confused and pained look.

“We should get him to the barracks. He can start sleeping it off, but it will be important to wake him every few hours to make sure no permanent damage has been done.” They stood on either side of the large man, looping their arms around his shoulders. They did most of the walking, as Porthos hung between them, trying to take a step every now and again. They checked in with Treville on their way out, letting them know the rooms were secure. Trevelle patted Porthos on the shoulder and winced in sympathy before sending them on their way.

“So…rest and recovery then?” D’Artagnan asked.

Aramis smiled, pleased that D’Artagnan was interested in learning. “Yes. Although if he gets worse, you should call a physician. But I think he’ll be fine. Won’t you, having that rock for a head?” Aramis grinned at his barely conscious friend.

“Stuff it,” Porthos mumbled, and Aramis laughed.

*

*

*

D’Artagnan raced through the cold, stone tunnels, searching for Aramis. They had all become separated during the fighting, but while Porthos and Athos had both shown up with their enemies dispatched, their worry all grew for Aramis. They had separated again, looking for their wayward companion.

D’Artagnan turned a corner, seeing a form slumped against the wall. The fleur de lis was instantly recognizable, and D’Artagnan dropped to his knees in front of the man. “Aramis?”

The other man’s eyes fluttered open. “D’Artagnan. It is good that you are here, I have something new to teach you,” he said tiredly. He indicated the bloody bandage on his thigh. “Unfortunately,” Aramis heaved a heavy sigh. “This wound has rendered me unable to walk. Would you help me to my things? It will also need needlework before we return.”

D’Artagnan nodded, helping him up. Aramis turned slightly paler and bit back a groan as he stood, but then looped his arm around the younger man’s shoulders as they moved back through the hallways.

Outside, near their horses, was a large stone that D’Artagnan helped Aramis to sit on. He ran to get the Musketeer’s things, water, and wine.

“Ah, good,” Aramis said, when D’Artagnan returned. “Give me the wine.” Aramis took the offered skin, taking a long swig, and then handing it back. “Now, flush the wound out with water. This is so we don’t seal the infection inside of it.” D’Artagnan nodded, first tearing a larger hole in the pants and then pouring water onto the wound. Aramis stiffened, sucking in a pain breath, and biting back a shout.

“Sorry,” D’Artagnan said hurriedly, afraid he had done something wrong.

Aramis shook his head. “Don’t be. You are doing well. Now,” Aramis gave a tired breath. “You must thread the needle. My hands aren’t steady enough to do it. You have sewn clothes, yes?”

D’Artagnan nodded, having plenty of experience mending clothes back in Gascony. He did as he was told, while Aramis lay back on his arms, breathing pained breaths. The water had washed the blood away from his thigh, but it was starting to flow up again. Aramis took another swig of wine. “You’ll find I am a much better patient than Porthos. Now, you are just going to start on one side, loop the thread over, pull the skin close together, dip under again, and keep it up. Go at an angle. Just like mending a shirt.”

“Just like mending a shirt,” D’Artagnan mumbled to himself. “Are you ready?” he looked up at Aramis, who just closed his eyes and nodded.

D’Artagnan pierced the skin, feeling Aramis stiffen slightly. Encouraged there was no screaming, he continued, concentrating on his task and trying to ignore the way the other man was trembling slightly and breathing loudly. So focused on his task, he hadn’t even noticed that the other two musketeers had come out of the tunnels and were standing behind him, watching the proceedings silently.

“Now tie it off,” Aramis said patiently, painfully, when he had reached the top of the wound. D’Artagnan did, surprised when a hand holding a bandage entered his vision.

“Wrap this around it. We’ll have it looked at when we return. But well done.” Athos clapped him on the back.

Porthos leaned forward. “Not bad, for your first time. Better than I could do,” he said appraisingly.

“I wouldn’t trust your giant hands with a needle,” Aramis mumbled painfully. Porthos just grinned, helping him up. “Well done, D’Artagnan,” Aramis smiled at him, somewhat breathlessly. “You’ve passed basic medical training.”

His nerves were high, slightly terrified from what he had just done, but also slightly exhilarated for having done it successfully. “Nothing about that was ‘basic’, D’Artagnan growled.

Aramis gave a painful laugh. “Welcome to the Musketeers.”


End file.
